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Monthly Archives: April 2013

I’ve blogged about my car before, last year, I think. We had a little adventure today, my little red car and me.

My car is 13 years old, and has 285,000 km on it. At this point, it owes me nothing.

Last winter, we had a bad ice storm. I broke the key off in the trunk lock trying to open it. No worries, as I had an electronic clicker thingy. Except I lost it a couple of months ago. So the only way to get into the trunk is by folding down the back seat. Works okay, I don’t use it much, really.

At some point, my driver side window stopped working. I had the garage look at it. They wanted $300 to replace it. I decided I could live without it, so now it just stays closed. It slipped a little, and I have the crack taped up with orange duct tape.

The other day, the right turn indicator started clicking double-fast, so I checked when I got home. Sure enough – rear turn signal bulb is burnt out.

AND…

I can’t even make hand signals, because the window won’t open.

Now, I can change a lightbulb, contrary to what one might think. How many Lynnes does it take to change a lightbulb? Well, normally just one.

BUT…

You have to open the trunk to do it.

HAHAHAHAHAHA, oh, Universe, you’re SO EFFING FUNNY.

I went to my garage, and explained the problem to the garage guy, who just kind of rolled his eyes and shook his head. He came out to my car with me, and had a look. Now, remember too, that I commute a bit, and the Hobo Monkey Club holds weekly meetings in my back seat. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. It’s not pretty.

So buddy lowers the back seat, climbs into my trunk and changes the the bulb for me. AND DOESN’T EVEN CHARGE ME ANYTHING.

Mister guy, you are my favourite person today. I spent most of today at court, so really, it’s not a stretch. I did have lunch with my friends Linda and Sasha and baby Hunter, but sorry, they are tied for second place, under the circumstances.

I may have to get a new car soon. I have to get an emissions test before my birthday, and I doubt it’s gonna pass. I haven’t had A/C for years, only two speeds on my fan work, I don’t have anti-lock brakes, and I’m missing two hubcaps.

But I love that freaking car. Also, my fiance kissed me in that car for the very first time. But, all good things must come to an end, and this, I think, is the last summer of the little red Cavalier.

Namaste, car.

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Some of you are just thinking “Yup. Affirmative.” But most of you (I hope, except for my army of silent haters) are saying, “Oh, hey, cut yourself some slack, girl” and will proceed to tell me many nice things about myself.

That’s awesome. I do it for other people, good people, who just don’t happen to be perfect. I’m quick to compliment little things and large things. I don’t like to see people cut themselves down, when they are wonderful, unique beings of light and love. Unless of course it’s myself, and that is a whole different story.

So, really – why do we say things to ourselves, that we would never tolerate someone saying to a friend? Why can we not accept that our imperfections do not mean that we are losers, or bad people, but simply complex, imperfect beings?

“We only hurt the ones we love,” right? Don’t we love ourselves best of all, deep down? We are the bluntest and most cruel to those who mean the most to us, because we are secure in their unconditional love and forgiveness. Self-criticism is self-love, to a point. It makes us strive to improve.

But sometimes, I’m just mean to myself. I’m an asshole. Gained five pounds? I’m a big fat loser with no self-control. Slipped off the wagon with the smoking? I’m a hopeless addict with disgusting habits. Drank too much at a party? I’m a borderline alcoholic.

None of these things are true. I make mistakes. I say the wrong things, blaze with temper at the oddest moments, make poor, impulsive choices at times. But I’m also a nice person, a socially conscious person, a person with a big heart and a great sense of humour. I’m artistic and stylish, attractive. I am both loving and loved, by many. Not all, but many. Enough, for sure. More than enough.

So, Namaste, Lynne. Your hair looks great today, and that charity idea you came up with is awesome. Thanks for all the things you do for others. Do some nice stuff for yourself. Here’s twenty bucks.

xoxoxo

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I still write reminders on my hand, in pen. I have always done this. Lots of kids do, teenagers too. I no longer scribble on my jeans, though, especially since I am now the one who buys the jeans and does the laundry.

I don’t go outside in my socks with no shoes anymore, nor do I slip my shoes on and off without untying them, running down the back of the heel. I still go barefoot around the house. Rarely do I wear slippers. I still love being barefoot outside, love the connection, and don’t care about the dirt. My feet never look summer-pedi-cute. My feet are calloused and utilitarian; long, tough and useful feet.

I don’t drag my hands down in my pockets and rip them anymore. I learned from falling up a set of stairs recently that hands are much more useful if they are at the ready, to catch me if I trip.

I wear proper boots in the winter, but still no hat. Unless it’s a cool, funky, functionless hat. I still don’t wear mittens. I do button up my coat now, and wear a proper coat, instead of three sweaters.

I still occasionally drink too much and make a fool of myself. I still sing, loudly and often, to the amusement and annoyance of my colleagues. I still don’t dance, unless I’ve drank too much and am making a fool of myself.

I occasionally get haircuts now, but I still like my hair long and wild and sexy. I will never get Middle Aged Lady Cut #4. I don’t dye my hair anymore, I like the grey, it makes me feel wise and experienced, except that I don’t feel that way at all. I feel awkward and self-conscious most of the time, although I am just now gradually losing my need to be please people and be accepted. I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.

Can I say that I still love sex? That I feel more passion now than I ever did at 15 or 20. If I love you, I love you with my whole heart, and if I don’t, you probably know without my telling you. That I feel strongly about causes, too, strongly enough to voice my opinion without fear of being a social pariah. I AM a social pariah. I’m okay wid dat.

I like to try to stay current, to be a little edgy, to make people a little bit uncomfortable. I’m brutally honest, mostly, except when I’m not. I tell the truth, but often not the whole truth, particularly if my opinion is hurtful, which it sometimes is. I have prejudices, and I’m ashamed of them, and I try to put them out of my mind. I still swear like a drunken sailor, too.

I’ve developed a more feminine style over the years, have come to embrace my woman-ness. I’m no Kate Moss supermodel; I’m more Janis, Marilyn, Anna Nicole. I’m a granola chomping loudmouthed bombshell. I love cleavage, love the legs, the legs. The legs that made me tower over everyone, the legs that I hid, I now deck out in multi-coloured tights and boots, boots with heels.

I’m still an introvert, though, I can’t spend too much time with people. I love people. People also drain me and drive me up the freaking wall.

I still read and read and read, all kinds of things, things that catch my interest now and then. I still believe in fate and magic, and believe that everything means something. I believe strongly in karma. I believe not-at-all in coincidence.

That’s all. I am who I am. 50 is a number, which I will be soon. I don’t feel it at all.

Maybe I’ll never grow up. That’s okay too.

Namaste.

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We now get Easter Monday off. We never did before. It was always a slow day, as the courts are closed and the jail is low on staff. Everyone assumed we were closed too. Well, now we really are. Like most short weeks containing a statutory holiday, it felt like the longest week in history. By the end of the day on Friday, there’s a few things I’m tired of hearing.

Me: Good morning.
Them: Well, it’s morning.

Me: What are your charges?
Them: I didn’t do any of them, so it doesn’t matter.

Me: I’ll get that done as soon as possible.
Them: Can you get that done as soon as possible?

Me: (after a lengthy explanation of what they need to do) Do you have any questions?
Them: Yeah. What do I need to do?

Me: I’m not a lawyer, and I can’t provide you with legal advice.
Them: I don’t want legal advice. I just want to know how I should plead.

Them: My lawyer says you have to… (fill in the blank).

Them: Are ya workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?

Them: “Smile for me, sweetheart.”

WORST OF ALL.

a) I am NOT your sweetheart. If I were, I would slit my throat. My sweetheart is not in jail; and

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This is the last day of my spring holidays, which I purposely chose to spend spring cleaning, knitting, reading and just being still and thinking.

I have seen very few people this week. I haven’t gone out shopping, haven’t gone to get my hair cut. I haven’t gone to the gym at all, and have eaten absolutely what I want, when I want. I have slept in and stayed up late when it suited me. I went out to Easter dinner at my future in-laws’, which was very nice indeed, but aside from that – people? Not so much.

I spent a lot of time cleaning out closets, sifting through things. Amazing how much stuff has accumulated in the five short years I’ve been here in the townhouse. I did a big purge when I sold my house on Bolivar Street. I’m doing one again. I’ve been through closets and drawers and cupboards. Much of it isn’t my own stuff, so I’ve had to to use my judgment as to what the boys might want to keep, important sentimental items, and things still useful, and what is just discarded, detritus, the miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam of their childhoods. It has, as I knew it would, made me nostalgic, melancholy and somewhat moody. Better left alone. On that note, I have yet to attack the basement and my younger son’s room. Too much, too soon, too overwhelming. I may need help with that, help both physical and emotional.

I’ve made huge inroads on a knitted crazy blanket. Freeform, organic, creative knitting is what I like best: some parts puckered and imperfect, patches of beauty, scraps of this and that, too small to stand on their own, all knit together into a useful and coherent whole. This, I have discovered, is my favourite part of fibre craft, of spinning and knitting up handfuls of fluff into things of use. Manipulation of matter, which is neither created nor destroyed, but simply changes form. I don’t know who said that, but it’s a universal truth.